Work Text:
After that first lonely flower dance when you had barely arrived in the valley, Elliott endeavoured every year after to make it up to you.
“It still haunts me,” he murmurs, having shown up at first light with a basket of wildflowers in his hands and a remorseful expression on his face.
“That crestfallen look on your features, the glassiness in your eyes. The way I was chided nonstop by Leah for not accepting your request.”
You let him go on, ushering him into the kitchen where the morning light is the best.
“It’s fine, Ell. Water under the bridge my heart,” you say, pulling him in for a quick kiss. Everything had been so new back then that you couldn’t fault him, and now, after a year of falling in love, you had the added bonus of arriving together this year arm-in-arm.
“So, why the bouquet of wildflowers? Im pretty sure a flower dance will have enough on hand,” you inquire curiously, his face instantly lighting up.
“Atonement. Adoration. Ardent affection,” he assures, guiding you down into your kitchen chair, his fingers dancing through the long strands of your hair.
Elliott gets lost in it, humming happily to himself. His touch is so gentle it feels like he’s cradling your heart in his hands, going in and removing all the past hurt. You’re grinning, you realize suddenly, as he thinks out loud. Picking up each flower from the table for closer examination.
“Forget-me-nots for remembrance and sincerity,” he whispers under his breath, weaving them through the cascade of chestnut curls down your back.
“Chicory for your resilience and determination. Turning this dream into a reality, and for somehow – miraculously – choosing me to share it with.”
On and on it goes. His careful joy spilling down your locks in pops of colour as vibrant as your love.
And when you turn, managing to coax him down into that same chair, it’s with stuttered apologies and that same flustered adoration that you’ve come to know so well. The one that never wants to seem a bother. The one that gives without taking, never asking. The one that is always surprised when you want to return the love.
You choose white flowers, standing out like bright stars in the sunset of his hair. For every bloom you select, he provides meaning.
Hepatica woven through the braids you’ve created – for healing and protection – so fitting for what you think about him. How he healed your broken heart, how you want nothing more than to protect that tremulous, hopeful optimism he always carries.
Trillium for new beginnings, where the braids meet along the back of his head, along with delicate bloodroot: white petals with bright yellow stamens to clear away any negativity.
You’re both giggling by the time he buttons you into your dress, twirling you around the kitchen for practice. He says through a dip and a deep kiss that it’s to ensure the blossoms stay firmly rooted in your hair.
You love every minute of it.
Years pass as love blooms into marriage, cultivating your garden of two over the years into a family of four… and that one gentle morning of shared joy? It’s now everlasting, perennial.
It’s Elliott, taking his daughter’s hands as they lead him into the garden. It’s curly red hair and long straight chestnut locks bouncing side by side, collecting dandelion crowns and daisy chains as their father expertly weaves them into their hair on a little stool under the shade of the large oak tree in your back yard.